Justin is a lot of things, but I’m not expecting “up on women’s fashion” to be one of them, which is why I’m surprised when he has his driver stop in front of what’s easily the hippest—not to mention the most expensive—boutique in Manhattan. It doesn’t even have a name, just a squiggle of a logo over the door. Not that I’ve ever shopped here. I’m not even fit to buy a single hairpin from a place like this, but you can bet I’ve seen the fashion spreads, with all the hottest starlets dressed up to the nines in amazing outfits.
“Justin,” I start, looking from the windows to him and back again. “I can’t—” Afford this. Believe this is happening. Stop thinking about kissing you. “Let you do this,” I settle on. “I mean, the whole Pretty Woman thing is like, thirty years out of date!”
“I’ve never seen that movie,” Justin replies, and I stop, momentarily distracted.
“Wait, seriously?”
He gives a shrug. “He’s a john, and she’s a sex worker? That doesn’t sound romantic to me. How are they ever going to have an equal relationship if he feels like he bought her?”
“That’s what I always say!” I exclaim, thrilled. “I don’t understand why people swoon over it! Like he won’t just throw it in her face every time they fight for the next ten years, until he leaves her for a younger model.” Then I shake my head. Focus. “Which is why this whole dressing me up thing is just . . . weird.”
Justin bursts out laughing. “You think . . . this is some kind of ploy to buy you?” he asks in disbelief. “Natalie, we’re just problem-solving here. I need a date to save me from gouging my own eyes out with boredom, you need a dress. Voila, the solution.”
“J. Crew would be a solution too,” I can’t help but mutter.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but J. Crew won’t cut it tonight,” Justin replies. “I have my reputation to think of,” he adds, with a teasing grin to let me know he doesn’t take himself so seriously.
“Well, if we’re here to protect the great Rockford name . . .” I smirk back, feeling better. “I might just be able to grin and bear it.”
A moment later the door is opened and we’re faced with the designer herself, whom I recognize from her feature in last month’s Vogue. Suze Delavigne. Her blonde hair is cut into a short, asymmetrical bob, and she’s wearing a simple black tunic that would probably fit like a potato sack on anyone else but on her looks like it cost a million bucks—which, let’s face it, it probably did. A diamond stud winks in her nose.
“Thanks for bailing us out, Suze,” Justin says, flashing her a charming grin. “This is Natalie. Natalie, Suze.”
“It’s great to meet you,” Suze says, extending one delicate hand. “I hope you don’t mind—Justin said you were in a hurry, so I pulled some pieces for you to try.”
“Um, that sounds amazing,” I say, trying not to sound as taken aback as I am by the idea of Suze freaking Delavigne as my personal stylist.
She leads us inside, flipping on the lights as she goes. Rack after rack of gorgeous clothing is lit up beneath the uber-trendy neon strip lights. I grab Justin’s arm. “How exactly are you on a first-name basis with the owner of Neue?” I whisper-hiss.
Justin smiles. “I took sailing lessons with her wife, back in the day. And her brother’s best friend’s cousin hosted a benefit for the Rockford Foundation last year.”
Well, that explains it.
Justin makes himself comfortable on a leather couch, scrolling on his phone while Suze shows me to a dressing room—which, to be clear, is more luxurious than a five-star hotel—and brings me an armload of gala-worthy dresses: silk and lace in brilliant jewel tones, all of them more beautiful and delicate than anything I’ve ever owned. I try them on as quickly as possible, not wanting to be an inconvenience, but Suze doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. “That color is fabulous on you,” she says, tilting her head approvingly as I slip into a long, wine-colored number. “Do you want to show Justin?”
“Oh, no,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “We’re not—” I break off, trying to figure out exactly what we are. Friends? Colleagues who made out once and now occasionally buy each other expensive ballgowns? “It’s a work thing,” I explain finally.
I try on a couple more of Suze’s selections before finally settling on a little black dress that costs less—but barely—than my share of this month’s rent. It feels more than a little weird, picking out fancy clothes when by all accounts the Gazette’s finances are circling the drain, but I figure this is Justin’s personal credit card on the line here, and hell, he can afford it. In fact, he doesn’t even glance at the total on the register. He’s too busy staring at me, I can’t help but notice.
And enjoy.
“Those are pretty,” he says, when he catches me gazing lustfully at a pair of Louboutin stilettos. They have signs of the zodiac decorated on them in crystals, and the effect is bling-to-the-max, but weirdly fitting for tonight, I can’t help thinking. “Suze, let’s do the shoes, too, OK?”
“Justin!” I protest. “No, it’s too much.”
“Are you saying that because you really think it is too much, or because you think you should think so?” he asks with a knowing smile.
I blink. “Huh?”
“We’re taking the shoes,” he says decisively.
And I let him. Maybe it makes me a terrible person, but they’re so pretty! Besides, the heavens have gotten me this far, maybe they’ll be my good luck charm.
“OK, real talk,” I say, turning to look at him as she rings him up. “Do you just pull this Cinderella routine with a different random girl every week, or . . . ?”
Justin laughs. “That makes me the fairy godmother in this scenario? I prefer that to Richard Gere.”
“Sorry, dude, but you’re no Richard Gere,” I tell him with a laugh.
He hands me the shoes, and I brace myself on his shoulder while I slip them on, trying not to notice how warm and solid his shoulder feels underneath the starchy fabric of his dress shirt. He’s still your boss, Natalie, I remind myself firmly. Off limits.
We say our thank yous to Suze and head out into the cool city night, Justin stopping to steady me as I wobble in my brand new heels. “Sorry,” I say, blushing a bit. “I’m more of a jeans and sneakers girl, normally.”
“Me too,” Justin says immediately. “You should see me trying to walk in my Jimmy Choos.”
I snort. “So, this date who canceled on you,” I can’t help but ask, keeping hold of his arm as we make our way down the sidewalk. “Would she care that you brought your assistant instead?”
“He,” Justin corrects absently. Then, off what I can only assume is the totally gobsmacked expression on my face: “My cousin Charlie.”
“Ah.” I nod.
“He mostly stays away from Rockford stuff,” Justin explains. “Which shows just how much smarter he is than the rest of us.”
“Just what am I getting myself in to?” I ask, noticing something in his expression.
“It’s . . . complicated,” he says, in a voice like possibly that’s an understatement. “My family can be kind of a mixed blessing. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he adds quickly. “I know exactly how lucky I am. The Rockford name means something, and most people don’t get the kind of opportunities I’ve been fortunate enough to have. I’m definitely not complaining. They’re just . . . tricky sometimes, that’s all.”
“I’ll consider myself warned,” I tell him, and slip my arm through his. Purely for the balance, of course, but I can’t help noticing I like the way it feels.
When we arrive at the gala, I have to say: Justin was right. There’s no way J. Crew would cut it in this crowd. The magnificent space is glittering with Manhattan’s elite, all decked out in their finest, sipping champagne and circulating under the glowing spotlights.
And tonight, I guess I pass as one of them.
The theme for the evening is Casino Night, with poker tables and a roulette wheel set up around the perimeter of the Temple of Dendur while a jazz singer in elbow-length gloves croons Ella Fitzgerald songs in one corner. “It’s all for the children’s hospital,” Justin explains, guiding me through the crowd and snagging a couple of flutes of champagne. “It’s a big cause of my dad’s, but he’s traveling for work right now, so he asked me to come instead. And when my dad asks for something . . .”
“It’s not really a request?” I ask, mentally adding the Rockford Pediatric Cancer Unit to Poppy’s list of Justin’s family’s notable landmarks.
“Exactly.”
I watch as Justin works the room for a while, noticing the way he’s perfectly at home among New York’s glitterati—asking after their trips to Dubai and their newest movies, the startups they’ve acquired this quarter. He always makes a point to introduce me, which I appreciate, but the truth is I’m feeling more than a little bit out of my depth—usually a fancy night out for me means club-hopping with Poppy and April, and only at bars running a two-for-one drink special.
Justin must be able to tell, because he ducks his head and whispers in my ear:
“See the guy at the craps table?” he asks, his breath tickling the side of my neck. “The one with the super unfortunate toupee?”
I follow his gaze across the museum, trying to ignore my shiver at his touch. “With the mean-looking wife?” I ask.
“Uh huh,” Justin says with a grin. “She’s in a mood because their priceless collection of art just got seized by the IRS, and he had to explain he’d been siphoning off the funds to pay for his mistress’s place in St. Tropez.”
I snort with laughter. “That’s like the dictionary definition of rich people problems!” I grin. “What else?”
“Hmmm . . .” He grabs us a plate of hors d’oeuvres and fills me in on our fellow gala-goers: who’s breaking up and who’s secretly dating, who’s actually millions of dollars in the hole. “And then she got caught in a compromising position with him in the tennis club dressing room,” he says, pointing out two people who are definitely not married to each other. “Working on their backhands.”
“Do you have the gossip on all of these people?” I ask, impressed.
“Possibly.” Justin offers me a rakish wink. “You have to amuse yourself somehow at these things, right?”
“You should start writing a gossip column for the Gazette,” I tell him. “Talk about improving circulation.”
Justin laughs. “The number one rule of these things is what happens at the country club, stays at the country club.”
“I’ll add it to my list of rich people rules,” I say, mock solemn. “Along with kissing on both cheeks, and never asking, ‘What do you do?’ ”
But the guest list isn’t all Buffy and Muffy here tonight. Justin introduces me to a famous restauranteur I’ve seen from the Food Network, and the curator of a downtown gallery I love. He seems more relaxed away from the snooty crowds—especially because nobody asks after his father. Finally, he nods at the poker table. “What do you say?” he asks with a devilish grin. “Want to play a few hands?”
“Sure,” I tell him, grateful for an activity. “I mean, it’s for charity, right?”
Justin nods. “You know the rules?” he asks. “I can teach you, if you need.”
I quirk an eyebrow, I can’t help it. “I think I remember.”
Twenty minutes later, I smile at Justin over a stack of poker chips so high I can barely see the dealer. “I think I’m ready to cash out,” I say sweetly. “You think you could teach me how to do that?”
Justin laughs. “You hustler,” he says, grinning.
“Thank you,” I reply with a grin. I never claimed to be a novice, but it’s possible I forgot to mention the part where this wasn’t exactly my first time at a poker table. “I’ve played a little before.”
“Clearly,” he smirks. “Where’d you learn?”
“My dad used to run a poker night with the other guys in his union,” I explain. “I really like corn nuts, so I used to hang around the table all the time. Picked up a few tricks.”
“I see that,” Justin says. He plucks two more glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing cater waiter, offering me one before raising his own in a toast. “We should celebrate.”
I raise my glass in a toast, then catch his eye. I pause. He’s looking at me with an expression I haven’t seen since that day in the elevator: intense and almost wolfish. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was lust.
I blush and look away, disconcerted by the shot of adrenaline coursing through me. Just because he looks damn good in a tux, doesn’t mean I need to melt all over this fine, polished floor.
My panties, however? Might be getting just a little bit twisted.
We drink our champagne, help ourselves to bites of smoked salmon and quiche the size of silver dollars. Justin was right—I do in fact have access to all the crab puffs I can eat—but still my stomach is rumbling, and he must be able to tell. “OK,” he says, glancing at his watch. I think he’s about to cut me loose, but he smiles. “I think I’ve officially shown my face here long enough. You want to get out of here and find some real food?”
If you’d told me a week ago that all I’d want to do on a work night is go for a late dinner with the Grim Reaper of the New York Gazette, I’d have asked you what drugs you were smoking. Tonight, though, I feel myself nod.
Real food . . . real kissing . . . real torrid nights tangled up in his designer sheets . . . I’ll take any and/or all of the above, please and thank you.
“Come on,” I say, downing the rest of my champagne before I can choose the safe way out. “I know just the place.”